


Married to My Work

by FandomNutter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Bodyguard, BodyguardAU, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Pianist Moriarty, Violinist Sherlock, bodyguard John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:33:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2823551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomNutter/pseuds/FandomNutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After returning from Afghanistan John needs a job, and Sherlock Holmes needs a bodyguard</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

John Watson hesitated before opening the door to the conference room. He did not need to look around as he walked in leaning on his cane, he knew that eyes lingered on him. Judging. He sighed inwardly, his competitors were all fit and young, wearing either expensive suits or brand name casual slacks with tank tops to display their muscles. With his limp and discount clothes he looked quite shabby indeed. But Mike thought he might have a chance....

He found an unoccupied table at the back of the room and sunk gratefully into a chair, leaning his cane against the wall and partially concealing it. He heard the door to the room open but did not look up, and was surprised when some one sat across from him.

“I recognize a military man when I see one,” said a gruff voice with a strong Australian accent. John looked up as a man with a large scar on his face held out a hand, “Sebastian Moran.”

“John Watson.” John replied with what he hoped looked like a sincere smile as he shook his hand. Moran’s grip was firm and dominating, but not unfriendly.

Moran leaned back in his chair and chuckled, “These guys don’t stand a chance. They spend their life in a gym, so what. Their father knows the head of police, big deal. Its us who are going to be of interest.”

John glanced around the room. The attention of the others were all focused on the table he sat at, glances flashing from him to Sebastian. “Don’t you think this is a strange way to pick a candidate for a body guard? He did not even ask for a resume.“ he asked trying to ignore the attention.

The other man shrugged. “I suppose he wants to see us all at once, to compare. How much do you know about him?

“Nothing.” John admitted, “I got sent home a few moths ago and have not kept up with the news.”

Moran gave him a sympathetic nod. “Well, he is a strange one, well known for being unconventional everywhere but the stage. Around the press he is rude, and apparently he is very self centered. However the pay makes me inclined to over look his flaws. Plus the job comes with housing, deals don’t get much better than that. Still, I have another job lined up in case this goes south. Some old big name, Mo-”

Suddenly a tall man with curly hair burst into the room arguing with his agent. “I don’t need a body guard!”

“Come on, you agreed to this.” His agent said to the man John figured was the famous violinist, Sherlock Holmes.

“Is this what I said yes to? I just wanted Mycroft to shut up.” Sherlock said dismissively before turning walking back to the door.

The agent pinched brow his brow and sighed, “Sherlock...”

Suddenly Sherlock whirled around and locked eyes with a surprised John Watson, “I want him.”

There were murmurs of disbelief from around the room and Moran raised his eyebrows, “Well done mate.”

The agent smiled, but then it faltered as he put a finger to a device in his ear, “Sherlock, he has a broken wing.” he tried to say in a low voice, but his words seemed to echo like a cannon blast.

“Yes Lestrade I know.” Sherlock said striding across the room to where John sat, his eyes boring into the soldier's, “Just like I know he was in the army, based in either Afghanistan or Iraq. He worked as a doctor, but has standard military training which makes him adequate for the job.” The agent Lestrade seemed about to protest but Sherlock kept going, “He was shot, but in the shoulder. This limp is entirely psychosomatic.” Moran looked at him surprise, clearly he had not noticed his cane. “Tell Mycroft I have made my decision.”

Sherlock had reached John’s table and stood over him. He pulled a card from his shirt pocket and scribbled on it, “The address is 221b Baker Street. Be there are seven o’clock tomorrow.” he handed him the paper and turned from him and seemed to dismiss the entire room with an, “Afternoon!”

A breath no one remembered holding was released when the door slammed shut after Sherlock and his agent. One by one everyone in the room meandered to the door, a few bitter looks among the glances directed at John. Moran hung back to walk with him. “I guess it is a good thing I have a back up.”

“Yeah.” John murmured, looking down at the card in his hands and trying to process what had just happened.

 

John hesitated before clicking the suit case shut. He had been packing and unpacking all day, stuffing his few possessions into the case and removing them with each change of heart. He looked around his empty flat before picking up the case and clutching his cane in the other hand as he walked out the door. He locked it for what he hoped was the last time.

 

When John stepped out of the cab at 221b he had to stop and stare at the building. He had been too preoccupied with apprehension to look out the window during the ride, and now he stood in front of an old victorian manor house surrounded by tall brick walls with a twisted metal gate.

“Dreary, isn't it?” A voice said startling him.

John looked around and spotted his new employer cloaked in shadow from the brick wall. “Sorry, I did not see you Mr. Holmes.”

“Sherlock, please.” the violinist said smiling and shaking his hand, “Follow me, I will show you around.”

They walked across the lawn, Sherlock shortening his pace so John could keep up. He pointed out various plants and explained aspects of the house’s architecture. John noticed that the far corner of the backyard had been allowed to grow wild, but Sherlock seemed to skip it in his extensive tour. After being shown the gardens Sherlock let John into the house through the kitchens.

“This house is old, practically a historical artifact.” Sherlock said holding the door open for John. “This is where the servants and kitchen staff would enter. Ah John, this is Mrs. Hudson my gardener.”

The old woman who had just walked into the kitchen smiled warmly at him, “You finally found some one, how lovely.” she said as she walked past him and out the door. 

“No.” Sherlock said after her picking up a knife and absently twirling it.

“No?” John asked, heart sinking at the thought of going back to his apartment.

“Not in the way she thinks.”

John blushed, “oh.” 

They stood in silence, John cringing inwardly with embarrassment.

“How long until you can move in?” Sherlock asked, his voice suddenly brisk, “I can arrange for a van to pick up your possessions.”

“Right now if you want. I have everything here.” John replied raising the suit case.

“I that case let me show you your room.”

 

As they walked through the dusty halls John glanced into the rooms he passed. Most of them had closed doors and those that didn’t seemed unused.

“Do you live here alone?” John asked to break the silence.

“Mrs Hudson lives on this floor, but she mostly keeps to herself in a few rooms further down the hall. The second floor is all mine, well it is yours too.”

 

After ascending a spiral staircase the house seemed to become more habitable. John felt his gaze wander into every open door, now about four of the twelve rooms he passed. The rooms on the second floor were spacious, with large glass windows. They had open books and mugs laying around. One had violins in various stages of construction and appeared to be a wood shop.

They reached what John believed was the middle of the building, a large open room with two doors and a hall leading off it. A telescope was in its center pointing through the glass ceiling. John walked over to it and found several layers of dust coated the lens. The walls were decorated with tapestries and a large ornate fireplace John figured he could stand up in was against one wall. A few modern couches that seemed out of place were scattered throughout the room, it was like seeing a cell phone in a Shakespearian play.

“The door on the right is your room.” Sherlock said suddenly, “I realize now we never went over your employment agreement.”

John nodded and Sherlock continued in a voice oddly void of emotion. “Never bring anyone into this house. You will have this key. It will get you were you need to be in the manor. If a door doesn't open, don’t force it. You are welcome to use the water and heaters free of charge. I will only require you to go to my performances and press events, the rest of the time is yours. Regardless of work time you will get six thousand five hundred and twenty six pounds a month, which is approximately seventy thousand per year.”

“Seventy thousand...” John must have mis-heard.

“Yes, are you listening?”

“Yeah, sorry Mr. Holmes.”

“My next show is in two days, until then get comfortable.” With that the violinist walked down the hall and out of sight.

“Seventy thousand.” John said to himself, a grin spreading across his face. It definitely beat the army pension.

Hefting his suitcase he walked to the door on the right and opened it. Inside was a bed room larger than the apartment he had lived in since returning from Afghanistan. There was a bed, a few dust book shelves, an old carved desk, and chair inside. His feet disturbed clumps of dust as they sunk into the deep rug on his way to the bed, and he wondered who it had belonged to before.


	2. Friends, Enemies, and Sherlock Holmes

Without much else to do the day after he moved in John texted Moran about getting a drink. A few hours later he was sitting on a bar stool in a quiet pub. He looked around after ordering two beers, wondering what was taking Sebastian. He had started getting interesting in the football game playing on the telly by the time Moran sat next to him.

“Sorry I am late, the boss needed me for an extra job today.” Moran said gruffly.

“I take it you got that position you mentioned before?” John inquired with a smile.

“Yep. Hows Holmes treating you?” Moran asked picking up his glass and taking a swig.

“Alright, he mostly keeps to himself.”

They drank in silence until Moran said, “I know you know I am wondering about your leg, and I know you noticed this.” He ran a finger over his scar, “How about we swap stories, one soldier to another.”

John looked down at his glass and traced a swirl in the condensation. He liked Moran, but he was not sure he was ready to talk about his leg. Deep down he knew he just didn’t want to think about it.

“Maybe later then.” Sebastian said taking a sip of beer before chuckling, “This isn’t even from my time, I fell with a pair of hedge clippers when I was six.”

John looked up at the scar and reevaluated it. “It should not be so severe, your doctor did a terrible job stitching it.”

“This is the handy work of my old man and some dental floss.” Moran said with a grin and John cringed inwardly, “at least he didn’t use mint.” There was a chirp from one of Sebastian’s pockets and he pulled out his phone, “I need to go, it was nice having a drink with you. We will do this again soon, yeah?”

“Yeah.” John replied, disappointed he had only been with is friends for about five minutes.

Moran got up from his stool and gave John a joking salute, “Until next time.”

 

John sat alone to finish his drink, and was surprised when his phone buzzed.

“Come at once if convenient.

-SH”

John stood quickly from his seat and limped out the door of the pub. He felt his phone buzz again but was too intent on getting to the tube station before the train left to check it.

 

He managed to squeeze into a packed car and stand with one hand clutching the bar, the other holding his cane. He frowned when he noticed several of the passengers sneaking glances at him. At the next stop all of the other passengers exited the car. He licked his suddenly dry lips and shifted nervously, remaining on his feet despite the surplus of seats. The doors closed and a man stepped from the control booth, whirling an umbrella with one hand.

“The leg must be hurting you. Sit down.” he said glancing at it pointedly.

John tightened his grip on his cane as the train lurched into motion. “I don’t want to sit down.”

“You don’t seem very afraid.” the stranger said tilting his head. His eyes seemed to bore into him, and it was different from when Sherlock’s had. Sherlock had had an air of curiosity, but this man was cold and evaluating.

“You don’t seem very frightening.” John shrugged.

The man stopped in front of him and smiled. “Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?” he paused to let the insult sink in before inquiring, “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

“He is my employer.” John responded curtly. “Whats yours?”

“I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“And what’s that?” John asked.

“An enemy.”

“An enemy?” John figured this man was the reason Mycroft wanted Sherlock to have a body guard.

“In his mind, certainly. Do you plan to continue your employment with Sherlock Holmes?”

“I could be wrong... but I think that’s none of your business.”

“It could be.” The man persisted.

“It really couldn’t.” John muttered quickly checking the most recent message from Sherlock.

“If inconvenient come anyway.  
\- SH”

“If you do move into, um... two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way. Double whatever your employer is offering, in fact.”

“Why?” John asked shoving his phone back into his pocket.

“Because you’re not a wealthy man. And I need information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.”

“And why would you want to know this?”

“I worry about him. Constantly.”

“That’s nice of you.” John replied sarcastically.

Ignoring John’s tone the man continued, “But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a... difficult relationship.”

“No.”

“You’re very loyal, very quickly.”

“No, I’m not. I’m just not interested.” and it kind of goes against my job description John finished in his head.

“Trust issues, it says here.” the man said pulling a small note book from his pocket.

“What’s that?” John asked although he had recognize it instantly as the book one of his old therapist took notes in.

“Could it be that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?”

“I just work for him. Who says I trust him?”

“You don’t seem the kind to make friends easily.”

“Are we done?”

The tube pulled into the station and the doors opened. “You tell me.”

 

Wanting to relay the experience to Sherlock and find out the meaning of the texts John hurried up the drive and unlocked the door. Following the sound of soft violin music he found Sherlock in the living room. John’s attention was immediately distracted by the patches on Sherlock's skin. “Are those two nicotine patches?”

“Three,” The violinist hummed as he continued to run his bow across the strings,  “it helps me concentrate.”

“Okay. Are you alright?”

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock replied serenely.

John sighed not bothering to pursue the subject, “I met a friend of yours on the tube.”

“A friend?” Sherlock asked sounding apprehensive and for the first time looking up from the strings.

“Well, he called himself your arch enemy. I know people can hold a grudge bu-”

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Yes.”

Sherlock relaxed “Did you take it?”

“No.”

“Pity.”

“Who is he? Should I be worried about keeping him away from you?”

“Did he have an umbrella and three piece suit?” Sherlock asked returning to his instrument

“Yes.”

“That was my brother. It appears you passed his test because you made it back here.”

“Right.” John said noticing Sherlock wasn't listening to him anymore. “Well, good night.”

He had nearly made it to his room when Sherlock murmured, “Pass me my phone.”

“Hm, where is it?”

“On the desk.” The violinist said lazily pointing to it with his bow.

John stared at it. The desk was about a foot away from Sherlock, but an entire room away from him. Sighing he adjusted his grip on his cane and made his way to the desk. He picked up the phone and held it out to Sherlock, who put his hand out, clearly wanting John to place it on his palm. Silently wondering if he had been hired to be a butler rather than private security he put the phone in the man’s hand, who took it with out a thank you.

Shaking his head he made his way back to his room and shut the door.


	3. A(almost) Murder at the Theater

The morning of the concert John found Sherlock in the workshop washing strings under a stream of water.

“I make all of my instruments myself.” he said without turning around, “That is how I know they will not fail me.”

John took the acknowledgement as permission to enter the room. Looking around he saw violins hanging on the wall, “Do you sell them?”

“No.” the violinist said carrying the strings to a drying rack. “People have tried to buy them though. I once got an offer of forty thousand pounds.”

Imagining saying no to 40,000 pounds John waited for Sherlock to indicate they were going to leave. The taller man paced around the room scrutinizing the violins on the wall before taking one down and putting it in a case. As they walked out to the car John asked where the concert was.

“New Zealand.”

John shifted nervously feeling the gun in his pocket and wondering how he would do in airport security.

“There is no need to worry about your unlicensed weapon, we are taking my private plane.” Sherlock said with the hint of a smile.

 

On the plane John sat wondering where he and Sherlock stood. There were no clear boundaries, and they had both broken conventional security guard employer etiquette. Most private security were silent hulks with either cool acknowledgement or almost parental attitudes towards their clients. Deciding to test the waters he asked, “How did you know about Afghanistan?”

Sherlock looked up from his phone, “As soon as I entered the room I could practically feel the tension. Everyone was focused on you and the other man at the table, which meant you were different. Some quick deductions about your posture concluded that you were military, and your fading tan line meant you were stationed somewhere with sun exposure.”

“That’s amazing.” John said and his employer smiled.

“My insight is usually unwelcome. Most people prefer that I keep my mouth shut and play.”

“Well they do not know what they are missing.”

They sat in silence for the rest of the flight. Once his awe had faded a new question plagued John’s mind. Why did Sherlock choose him over Moran, who was both younger and more fit than he was?

 

The plane landed and Sherlock and John disembarked. They took a car to an expensive looking hotel and checked into a room John was sure cost more than the vehicle they had just exited.

“We are staying over night and fly back tomorrow.” Sherlock said as he began undressing and John made a disconcerted noise.

“Problem?” He asked pausing at a button before resuming.

“What are you doing?”

“I am changing for the show later.”

“Oh,” John said stupidly. “Well, I am just gonna wait outside. Shout if you need anything.”

John stood outside the door until he heard Sherlock call, “John!”

“Yeah,” He said before freezing with the door partially open.

The violinist was half dressed and tightening his belt, his bare chest some how paler than the rest of him. “Get me my shirt, it is hanging in the bathroom.”

He stood staring until Sherlock looked up and raised his eyebrows. “Right, on it.” John said blushing. He grabbed the shirt from its hook and furiously reprimanded himself. So what he wasn't wearing a shirt. Men go around shirtless all the time, he had been in the bleeding army for Christ’s sake, not to mention he was a doctor...

He handed Sherlock the shirt, who pulled it on and buttoned it deftly before sitting cross legged on the bed and closing his eyes. John sat on his own bed and fiddled with his cane, trying hard to not think about his employer. His mind turned to the object in his hands. Now that he had a decent paycheck he was considering getting a new one, maybe one carved from wood.

A phone buzzed shaking him from his thoughts. “Time to go.”

 

John watched from behind the curtain as Sherlock strode out onto the stage. The entire building was silent, and the violinist sat in a chair center stage and brought his bow to the strings. The music swelled and echoed through the hall. John was entranced, but noticed a movement on the edge of the range of his vision.

A man was on the lighting rig above the stage. John saw him raise a long tube to his mouth and point it at the musician. “SHERLOCK!” John roared, his voice echoing around the hall. The violinist’s head snapped up to look at him, the look on his face changing from confusion, anger, and then comprehension in a second. He leapt from the chair and the audience gasped. John’s attention turned to the man now rapidly descending the ladder.

Sherlock watched as John charged off to chase the man and smiled. “Ladies and gentlemen.” He said addressing the crowd, who fell silent. “I apologize for that....interruption. It might have been unclear to you, but there was just an attempt to take my life. But never mind that, I will continue.”

 

Heart pumping so hard he could practically hear it John ran, eyes trained on the fleeing man who had long threw away his weapon. He drew his gun and fired once, the bullet flying past the man, who froze. Taking the opportunity to tackle him John held him on the floor.

“Excellent choice of weapon” a voice said behind them, and John nearly let go of the assassin in shock. He looked up to see Sherlock who seemed to have materialized behind him, giving no indication he was out of breath. “Silent, and efficient. Practically impossible to trace.” Sherlock said holding up what seemed to be a straight hair, but what John understood was some sort of dart. “Too bad you did not try sooner.”

A police officer jogged into sight and John gratefully handed the man over to her.

 

As they walked out to the awaiting car Sherlock seemed exceptionally happy about something, and John himself couldn't help but think about how good it had felt to chase the man down. After sitting in silence for a few minutes watching the violinist try to contain his grin John asked, “What is it?”

“Nothing. I am just glad to see my investment paid off.” Sherlock replied as the car stopped in front of the hotel and he got out.

“Investment?” John asked hurrying after him.

Sherlock looked at him pointedly.

“Me? What that I just chased down a killer? I am sure that is in my job description.”

“No. I made a gamble a few days ago. I could have not gotten a bodyguard and have had to deal with Mycroft bugging me until I looked again-”

“or you would have been dead.” John interrupted.

“No let me finish. I could have chosen any of those meat headed testosterone junkies in that room. Instead I choose a broken soldier.”

John tried not to be insulted, “What is your point?”

“Well, does he seem broken to you?” Sherlock asked as they reached the door to their hotel room. As Sherlock pulled the key from his pocket John realized he did not have his cane. He looked up at Sherlock in surprise, who winked at him and opened the door.

There were several people inside who seemed to be searching the room. John turned to Sherlock in confusion. The violinist had a look of annoyance on his face and he strode into the room.

“What are you doing?” He demanded and the man John recognized as his agent walked to meet him.

“Its a drugs bust.” The agent said before turning to John, “Greg Lestrade, sorry I did not have enough time to greet you last time we met.”

“You were in here conducting a drugs bust when I was almost killed on stage?!” Sherlock said furiously, but John suspected he was more angry that they were going through his things without his knowledge.

Lestrade shrugged and John asked, “Do you seriously think this guy is a junkie? Have you met him?”

Sherlock walked up to John and whispered, “John, you probably want to shut up now.”

“Yeah, but come on” John said, he imagined rock stars and unsuccessful guitarist doing drugs, not this elegant man. Sherlock was still looking at him and he whispered, “No.”

“What?” Sherlock asked irritably.

“You?”

“Shut up!” He said defensively, a hint of worry in his eyes. Sherlock turned back to his agent, “Did you really have to get the orchestra members to search?”

“I just mentioned it off hand and they volunteered.” Lestrade said. “They are very keen.”

“This is illegal, get everyone out!” Sherlock said raising his voice. “Out!”

“Come on everyone, we are done here.” Lestrade said and the musicians filed out of the room giving Sherlock looks as they did.

“I wish I could fire you.” Sherlock said scornfully.

“No you don’t, and you can’t, that is one of the advantages of being in a relationship with your brother.”

Sherlock slammed the door behind them and huffily curled up in his bed. John looked at the lump under the blanket and chuckled before going to the bathroom and taking a shower.


	4. Siblings on a Plane

The next morning John was woken up by Sherlock who was playing his violin. Badly. John’s eyes blinked open and he was startled to see the violinist staring at him. “Ah, it is good to see you are awake. We fly home in a half hour.”

Groaning John rolled out of bed and locked himself in the bathroom to change wondering how the instrument that had played so beautifully in a concert hall the night before could make such an awful sound.

 

They arrived at the airport and Sherlock lead the way up the steps of the plane only to stop in the door way. John heard someone from inside the aircraft say “Good morning.”

Sherlock walked stiffly through the door and John followed, immediately recognizing the man inside from the night he had encountered him on the train. The plane took off and Sherlock said “I hope you brought a parachute.”

Mycroft smiled, “I though this would be a good opportunity to catch up.”

Sherlock curled up in a seat and looked away from his brother, who turned to John, “Hello Doctor Watson.”

John nodded to Mycroft and sat next to Sherlock, which seemed to make him relax a bit.

“Gregory told me about what happened at the show,” Mycroft said tapping his umbrella on the floor, “I bet you are glad you listened to me.”

Sherlock sat up and snapped, “Don’t play the ‘I was right card’ because you weren't. We both know that it would have never happened if I hadn’t hired John.”

“What?” John asked sharply, “How is this my fault?”

Sherlock’s face softened as he turned to his body guard. “It isn’t. There is an individual that saw me adding you to my life as a challenge. Last night he was testing your skill, trying to find out how much of a threat you are.”

“It seems people cant stop testing me.” John muttered under his breath.

“The person we are referring to is man named James Moriarty.” Mycroft said and Sherlock gave him an annoyed look, “What, you were going to have to tell him eventually, there is no point of being cryptic.”

“Moriarty is a skilled pianist.” Sherlock said quickly before Mycroft could continue. “He approached me a few years ago and tried to convince me into playing with him. He said we could be universally recognized as the best, the perfect duo, he was connived of it. I turned him down and he disappeared. He stopped playing, no one has heard from him since.”

“Until now.” Mycroft said, getting another annoyed look, like brother interrupting each other telling a ghost story. “There is a rumor that he is back in London, Glasgow, Dublin. The location changes, but what stays the same is that he is obsessed with Sherlock. I have had multiple that sources say he has been seeking information.”

“He has the power and influence to hire assassins, and my brother fears that I will be a target in the near future.” Sherlock said nonchalantly.

“So the man in the light rigging, he was hired by this Moriarty?” John asked, his brow furrowed.

“The shoe fits.” Mycroft said. “My sources suggest that Moriarty wants Sherlock dead.”

“Enough of this!” Sherlock muttered before standing and storming to the bathroom.

When the door clicked shut John murmured, “I can understand your concern.”

“Don’t side with him!” Sherlock shouted from the other room.


	5. Jealousy, My Dear Watson

John woke up to a silent house. A chilly, silent house. Pulling on a bath robe he wandered from his room down to the kitchen. It was still weird for him to walk for minutes to get to his kitchen when before he had lived in one room. As he was thinking this he almost tripped over a taut wire spread across the kitchen’s door frame.

Swearing he stumbled but remained on his feet before glaring at the wire he was sure Sherlock would claim was another bloody experiment about harmonics or something, but what John was sure the violinist left around to intentionally trip him. At least this one was not at the top of the stairs.

He knelt down and removed the wire from the door and then put the kettle onto boil. John sat down in one of the heavy wooden chairs and was immediately plagued with the thoughts he was making an effort to ignore. He looked at the kettle, the dust whirling in the light of the open window, anything for a distraction. Hating the kettle for taking so long to boil his mental barriers developed cracks in which thoughts about the graceful violinist began to seep through.

He stood up abruptly and walked over to the stove, maybe watching the flame would speed up the boiling process. His brain seemed to laugh at him, and then it was too late. The man was beautiful and brilliant he thought, cursing himself for his weakness. But he was his boss. If he were to approach the subject and got fired what would he do? This was the best job he had ever had. And he wasn't gay. He had insisted this for the past thirty years of his life, defended the fact against the suggestions from his sister and aggressive suspicion of his father.

And what about Sherlock? He thought about the interview Sherlock had done a few days ago, he had said he was ‘married to his work.’ What did that mean? Devoted to his violin? But he had canceled all of his shows for the next ten months, resulting in frantic calls from Lestrade. That wasn’t very devoted.

The man did not seem to have relationships. If he did John would know, wouldn't he?

But Sherlock snuck out at night, he had been doing it a few times a week since the concert, maybe even longer before he noticed. Was he seeing someone? Jealousy snaked its way through his thoughts, even though he did not have a reason to be jealous. His employer could do what ever he wanted.

His attention was brought back to the kitchen when the kettle began whistling and he gratefully poured himself a cup of tea. Trying to reign in control of his thoughts he turned to Moran. He had seen quite a bit of the soldier because of all the time off Sherlock gave him. Sebastian, on the other hand, seemed to be constantly busy, so all of their meetings were brief, but enjoyable.

He had almost finished his tea when he heard the door unlock and click open as the violinist entered the house. For a man who had been out all night he was looking exceptionally bright. Sherlock dragged a chair over to the table, its heavy legs scrapping across the floor, and sat across from John.

“I am going to practice in half an hour. There is a great theater, phenomenal acoustics, in London where I have a contact.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

Sherlock looked around and gestured lazily, “Well you could stay here in this old dusty manor...”

John hesitated for a fraction of a second. He had been hoping for an opportunity to fully explore the new home, but every time the thought occurred Sherlock offered a better option. This was one of those times. “I will go change.”

 

An hour later they were waiting in the cold outside the closed theater. A woman approached the door and unlocked it letting them in. Sherlock whisked past her, and John thanked her for both of them.

Sherlock lead the way through twisting corridors and prop rooms to the biggest stage John had ever seen. The violinist motioned for him to choose a seat and began setting up on stage. John sat down and the woman sat next to him.

“He is great, isn’t he?” She asked in a quiet voice.

John looked at her and figured she meant his playing rather than his attitude. Thinking about how his boss hadn’t acknowledged her John mumbled, “He has his moments.”

They sat together and the woman fidgeted nervously before saying, “I am Molly by the way. Molly Hooper. I do the lighting and effects here.”

“John Watson, I am Mr. Holmes’s private security.”

Worry came into Molly’s eyes, “What does Sherlock need security for?”

John wondered how much to tell her. “He is in the public eye, he is bound to meet someone with bad intentions.”

“He doesn’t have to worry about that here.” she said quickly, “I am the only one here besides the new choreographer. He is working on the other side of the building and is my boyfriend, so you do not have to worry about him. He won’t tell anyone that Sherlock is here because technically I am not suppose to let either of them in after hours...”

“Good.” John said trying to calm her down, “That means we can relax.”

Molly nodded and settled back into her seat.

Sherlock seemed to have been waiting for them to finish speaking, because he started playing the second the conversation ended. After a minute John recognized the composition. The violinist had played parts of it over the last few weeks, but this was the first time he had heard it all together. Sherlock’s music always had an enchanting effect on him, with the exception of his wake up calls, and this was no exception. 

When the song was over John and the woman next to him applauded enthusiastically. Sherlock bowed and hopped off the stage.

“What did you think?” He asked John, eyes gleaming with excitement.

“That was amazing, one of the most beautiful pieces I have heard you play.” John paused wondering if he should have used the word beautiful, “Is it for your next show?” when ever that will be. Maybe he was taking time off to write new pieces.

“No,” the violinist replied, “I wrote it for someone.”

Man Sherlock’s eyes were distracting. Feeling disappointed John managed to tear his away and say, “I am sure she will love it.”


	6. Scratch the Surface

On a day Sherlock was going to spend the afternoon with his brother John decided to explore the manor. After watching his pleading boss getting dragged out the door by Mycroft John walked outside. He looked over to where the plants had been allowed to grow wild. The place Sherlock pretended did not exist during their tour. As he looked his curiosity and a sense of foreboding grew in equal measure.

At last he made his way to it. Through the tangle of weeds he could see an old wooden structure long broken down by time and the elements, its walls torn apart by the gradual growth of a few trees. As he moved closer to get a better look John dislodged a thick piece of wood with his foot. He examined it to find a carved word too worn out to read. He looked back at the wooden structure and noticed a small wooden cross next to it. So it was a dog house then?

He gently tossed the plaque back through the branches and made to walk back to the house when he heard something shatter. Frowning John turned back to the dog house. He noticed a path through vegetation a little to the right, over grown for a few months. He forced his way through the new plants and found himself next to the grave looking down at a pile of discarded syringes. His heart sank as he noticed the bottle shattered by the wooden sign. Lestrade hadn't been lying. But then again it seemed like no one had been back here in a while and his boss had never showed symptoms of being on the source.

Reassuring himself he walked back into the house and tried the basement door. It was locked. John shook his head and went to the spiral stair case. He kept climbing, skipping Mrs. Hudson's floor. He did not want to invade her privacy, even though she often times told him he was welcome. And she also had a habit of making suggestions, even though he told her several times he wasn't interested in men.

He reached the floor he shared with Sherlock and looked up the long hall that lead to the living room. Twelve doors, five on one side and seven on the other. He walked past the first one, he knew it was the violin shop and tried the second one. Locked, as where the next few he tried. Slightly disappointed John turned to the other side of the the hall and was surprised when the first door he tried opened. Inside he found a small bathroom.

Glad he no longer need to walk down stairs to use a toilet and shower he tried the next door and found it was locked. The only other door in the hall that was unlocked was an old office.

He walked through the living room to the hall on the other side of the house. He had never gone down this hall before, he had not needed to. One side only had double doors in its center, and the other had a few. He tried the first two on one side and giving up decided to try the double doors. As he walked toward them he felt a cool draft across his face.

He turned to the door and reached for the handle. It did not turn, but with a bit of pressure it creaked open. John frowned, the manor was in excellent condition, but the door frame was so rotten the lock had separated from it. He walked in and was surprised to see a large hole in the ceiling. He wondered if he should tell Sherlock, but then he remembered the door had been locked. He wasn’t suppose to be in here.

Half of him was telling him he should leave, but the rest of him was too inquisitive. The light shining in from the holes in the ceiling was enough to illuminate the room a little, and he strided through and pulled the musty curtains open. Light shined into a bedroom. The room must have once been impressive, but it had been left to the mercy of years of water damage. Glad the floor could support his weight John looked around.

There were a few broken chairs next to a four poster bed. He walked to the fire place and looked at the mantel before picking up one of the the more intact framed pictures. It’s glass had a spider web of cracks, and he carefully removed it to find a wedding picture. Had this been his boss’s parent’s room?

He looked around the room again. Some thing was wrong. The explanation was dancing beyond his reach. He looked at the broken chairs again. Weather had not done that.

Suddenly the room did not seem so friendly. He noticed the posts supporting the moth eaten curtains around the bed were banged up where chairs had been smashed in to them. He noticed something glitter out of the corner of his eye and found a piece of metal in the fire place. It was twisted out of shape but John could hazard a guess about what it was. The atmosphere was suddenly thick with rage and he began to feel panic and anger that wasn’t his.

John hurried out of the room and shut the door behind him, hoping his intrusion would not be obvious. He turned his attention to the double doors, which in contrast to the last room, opened smoothly. He walked into a library. He wandered along the shelves trying to forget the previous room and found a found a section of records, tapes, and cds.

The shelf of cds was organized by instrument. His eyes went to the piano section and he was not surprised to see Moriarty’s music. Spotting a cd player next to the record player he put it in and sat in a nearby armchair to study its case. The music flowing from the speakers was smooth and dark. It was good, exceptional, but felt wrong.

The faded cover art depicted a man who was playing a piano and smiling at the photographer. There was a glint in the pianist's eye that made it seem he was looking at John from the paper, like they were alive.

Suddenly the music turned chaotic and John jumped. As he sighed and scolded himself John felt his his phone vibrate. Putting down the case he pulled his phone from his pocket and looked at it’s glowing screen. It was a text from Moran.

“Need to talk to you now.”

 

John walked into the bar and was surprised to see Moran waiting for him, it was usually the other way around. He sat down next to him and before he could ask why he wanted to talk Moran order both of them drinks.

“I am not suppose to see you any more.” Moran said softly, alcohol strong on his breath.

“What?” John asked confused as the bar tender placed their glasses on the counter.

“Its bullshit!” Moran snarled taking his glass and swigging it down before slamming it on the bar and roaring, “He is an unreasonable, evil sonofabitch with a fucking god complex!”

John paled staring at Moran as he was ushered out of the bar by the manager. He hastily payed for their drinks before hurrying after him.

John found him standing in the rain just outside the door. “Seb?”

Moran shook his head and started walking away, John close behind him. As they walked he recognized their rout. Sebastian was headed for another bar.

As they stepped into the building Moran ordered a drink and John frowned, “Don’t you think you've had enough?”

Moran downed it and suddenly grinned, “Enough?”

John was taken aback by this sudden change of attitude.

“Whats up with your face?” Sebastian laughed, “I will buy you a drink.”

Trying to ground Moran John put a hand on his shoulder, “You were gonna tell me something?”

“Another time, never mind what Jim says.”

“Jim?”

“My boss. He loves your boss” Moran slurred pointing at John, before poking him hard in the chest, “he has all the pictures, dvds, anything and everything to do with Sherlock Holmes.” he laughed and hummed for a few seconds, “right there, one of Sherlock’s songs! I bet I know half of them by heart.”

Moran continued to babble and John’s suspicion grew, “Who is your boss?”

“What, didn’t I say? Mr Moriarty!”

 

John thundered up the spiral stair case and jogged to the living room to find Mycroft and Sherlock ignoring each other. Mycroft looked up at him and said, “Ah, John, I noticed you moved into my old room. I am glad it is being used.”

Sherlock looked up from the violin he had been playing softly, head tilted with curiosity. “You have something to tell me.”

“Yes,” John replied hastily, “Sebastian mentioned, let slip, well told me he worked for Moriarty.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, “So he is back in London.”

“Sebastian Moran?” Mycroft asked suddenly.

“Yes?” John looked to him.

“Dishonorably discharged from the army, and intelligent man who went to Oxford but had a number of, ah, behavioral misconduct issues. Arrested a few months ago only to be released and the file invalidated.” The elder Holmes said twirling his umbrella, “Until recently well known as a gun for hire, but no court room ever condemned him.”

“Moran is a hit man?” John asked in disbelief.

“Until recently.” Mycroft reminded him, “He claimed that he had changed his ways and stopped taking clients.”

“Apparently not.” Sherlock added, “And now he is working for Moriarty.”


	7. Shopping Trip

Sherlock had a problem. Well, he had many problems, but one in particular was that he snuck out at night. John first noticed this the day they returned from New Zealand, but recently the violinist took to disappearing for days at a time. He knew it was none of his business, his employer could do what ever he wanted, but still he felt a strong urge to protect the man. It had nothing to do with the fact he might be seeing some one. Nothing at all.

This of course gave him more time to go out to the pub with Sebastian, well it had. Sebastian had disappeared after that night in the bar, even from Mycroft’s radar.

 

John was in the living room cleaning the old telescope with an open manual next to him when Sherlock sat down on the couch and began playing a song, the song he had written for someone. John closed his eyes momentarily, he really loved that song, before sighing. Sherlock probably knew it made him.....not jealous.

The music became quieter and Sherlock said, “John, lets go shopping.”

The body guard looked at him in confusion. In the months they had lived together he had never known Sherlock to go to the market, he just seemed to pick off what ever he bought. And it was almost midnight. “I went to Tescos this morning...”

Sherlock gave John a haughty look and stopped playing his violin, “I know. I need to go pick up some violin strings and was wondering if you would accompany me.”

John shrugged, “Alright.”

 

They took a cab to a boat yard, and John kept looking to Sherlock for clues that were not given. When they got out of the cab John noticed a few boats that looked like they carried cargo. So Sherlock was getting them directly from the buyer.

He took a few steps towards the cargo ships and turned to see Sherlock walking the other way. He hastily followed and to his surprise Sherlock walked up to a monstrous cruise ship that took up more than half of the dock.

They climbed aboard, bowed to by the man on the deck. A party seemed to be going on. “Is this where you disappear to?” John whispered looking around at the lights and listening the music that was sending vibrations through the ship.

“Maybe.” Sherlock said infuriatingly before leading John through a door and down several flights of stairs.

They reached a boiler room and Sherlock opened the door to what seemed to be a broom cupboard, only to reveal another door with a slot at eye level.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Sherlock grinned and knocked on the door. The slot slid open and the violinist mumbled something and handed a few pounds through it. He motioned for John to stand next to him and the door opened. They walked out to a platform and John stared at what lay below. All he could think to say was, “It must be a nightmare to evacuate.”

Sherlock chuckled and put an arm around his shoulders. “I know these people, they would gladly die with their goods or have an escape method so advance it would make your head spin.”

It was too much seeing what looked like a city below him. This was the basement of a ship. He wasn't sure Sherlock’s arm helped either. He certainly could see clearer now, but was distracted by its pressure, and well, presence. Sherlock lead him down the stairs to the city. It was like a scene out of a movie. There were tents and vendors as far as the eye could see. There was a bar along one wall, and the whole place had a general unclean feel to it.

They walked down a street, isle, whatever, and John could feel unsavory eyes on them. Sherlock must have felt him tense and said, “They wont hurt you, they know you are with me.”

“I thought I was suppose to protect you,” John said looking at a stand that was selling what looked like human bone. “What is this place called anyway?”

“Tortuga, the owners of the ship are real movie buffs. But they have not idea that it actually means turtle, not very exciting, or that there is actually an island in Haiti. Ah, here we are.”

Sherlock held open the flap of a tent for John who was taken aback by how clean it was inside. He looked around and felt like he had just entered any store in London. Well any music store. The man behind the counter was giving him a look that vanished the second Sherlock entered.

“Ah, so this is the special man.” The man being he desk said warmly in an accent John could not place.

“Um.” John mumbled.

“The strings, Taj.” Sherlock said.

“Ja, ja.” Taj said waving him off. He turned to John, “you should see this guy. Comes to my shop every night worrying his curly head about one thing or another.” He shook his head and picked up a box from under his desk, “He sits in that chair and worries, I am surprised my customers do not catch his lingering anxiety. I have to tell him, ja the song is good enough, I am sure he will love it. But no level of reassurance is enough.”

John was overwhelmed by the words he was hearing. They were so forward, and sounded to good to be true. 

Sherlock wouldn’t meet his eyes, but John was certain there was a brush of pink across the sharp cheek bones. “How much do I owe you?”

“The same as always,” Taj said tapping a finger on his desk, “three fifty krone.”

Sherlock shoved few colorful crumpled bills at the cashier and hurried out calling, “Keep the change.”

John looked at Taj who said, “You English embarrass so easily. Good luck with him.”

John nodded and made to leave the tent, but paused just to make sure, “The song he wrote, he wrote it for me?”

“Ja, you should have seen him that day after he preformed it for you. He was hoping that you would take the hint.”

“The hint?”

“You know when a cat brings its owner a dead bird to show affection? That was his dead bird.”

“Hm,” John said, just for something to fill the silence and to disguise his swelling heart. “Thank you.” He walked out of the tent and was not surprised to see the violist had vanished. That did not dampen his mood however, he very much doubted anything could.

 

A cab ride later John walked into the kitchen of 221b. Sherlock must be home, the kettle was on the stove, and he and Mrs Hudson always put it away. John put it away before making his way up to the second floor.

Something was different. He suddenly realized there were open doors all throughout the hall. They were not throw open, just a cracked, enough to be noticed. He walked past Sherlock who was “sleeping” on the couch, to the other hall and found all the doors, with the exception of the rotting room and a door at the end of the hall, were open as well.

John walked back to the living room and leaned against a wall, smiling at Sherlock. The violinist was still feigning sleep, but John could occasionally see his eyes flicker from between his almost closed eyelids. “I am glad you trust me.” John said before getting a little flustered, maybe he should have thought about what he was going to say. He quickly turned and started to walk to his room. He turned at the door to see Sherlock‘s eyes following him before snapping shut.

“I really liked that song you wrote by the way.” John said before shutting his door and sighing.


	8. A Twisted Melody

John Watson was walking home from Tescos. He could have taken a cab, but the weather was nice for the first time in a long time and he only had one not so heavy bag. As he walked he thought of Sherlock and could not help but smile. Since his revelation at Taj’s shop the violinist had not confirmed anything said by the shop keeper, but things between them became less formal.

Not that they were ever formal. Sherlock had never acted like his boss before, but this was different. From the beginning Sherlock had a habit of invading his personal space, knew everything about his personal life, and walked around naked after showering. Now the deviation from professional interaction was best summarized by the night before.

John had been sitting on the couch watching the telly, a rerun of a Doctor Who episode, when Sherlock sat down next to him. John had felt his heart flutter and his hands get clammy. He balled his fist, scorning himself for acting like a love struck teenager.

“You really can’t help it.” Sherlock said as if he had read his mind. The violinist picked up his hand and examined it.

John bit his lip nervously and tried to keep his hand malleable for Sherlock, sure he was blushing. The violinist gently pressed a few delicate fingers against his wrist. To get a pulse?

“Dopamine, adrenaline and norepinephrine.” Sherlock said thoughtfully replacing his hand back on his knee. “Part of chemical mixture that makes up your brain. Dopamine is your reward system. Adrenaline and norepinephrine send messages, telling your brain how to act and triggering your pulse to speed up and your sweat glands to activate. An example of the process is thus,” Sherlock lifted John’s arm again and swiftly curled up on his side, resting his head in John’s lap.

John sat with eyes wide with surprise. His heart did, indeed, speed up. He uncertainly draped his arm onto Sherlock’s hip. The violinist's eyes were locked on the TV screen, slightly obscured by a few curly strands of hair. John wanted to move them out of the way, and hastily stopped himself from running his hands through his employer's hair. Sherlock had asked about the show, and John explained the plot...

A hand latched around John’s ankle and he jumped, dropping his bag. He was harshly brought into reality, throwing him into confusion and panic. He looked down but could not make sense of what he saw.

There was a man lying face down on the pavement clinging to his leg with one hand. Had he just crawled out of the alley? He was bloodied, and John jerked out of his grip. Was this man hostile or just needing help? A hood covered his face, and he could hear a word being mumbled repeatedly. He had almost made his decision to call the police when the man spit out a bubble of saliva and blood and spoke clearly, “John.”

It couldn’t be. John quickly knelt down next to the man and gently flipped him onto his back. The hood fell away to reveal the battered face of Sebastian Moran. “What happened to you?” John muttered as he unzipped the hoodie and felt the man’s chest, unsurprised to find a few broken ribs.

Moran seemed to need to muster his energy before he could talk again and John took the time to give him a once over. Swollen ankles, sprained or possible bone fracture of the lower legs. Left leg hung limper than the right, so likely trauma to the pelvis. The broken ribs, and a dislocated shoulder. Glad there was one thing he could fix John said. “Listen, this his going to hurt, but I need you to relax.” Moran nodded and John placed one hand firmly on his collar bone and gripped the man’s arm with his other and pulled. Moran roared as it slid into place and then gasped.

“Okay, I am going to call an am-”

“Moriarty wants Sherlock.”

John froze as he was lifting his phone to his ear, “What did you say?”

“He left this morning.” Sebastian said through labored breaths, “I got out. Had to warn you.”

“Are people after you?”

Moran git his teeth. “Yes.”

John did not know what to do. It was always Sherlock who made the decisions, he just followed him. Now he had a few choices, and was not sure he could choose the right one. He could not leave Sebastian here. He couldn't wait with him for the ambulance. They would have to take a cab to Baker Street. Sure he had gone mad John left Moran’s side and waved down a cab. He slipped the driver few extra pounds before helping Moran up and practically carrying him to the cab.

 

During the tense ride John was able to get a bit more out of Moran. Moriarty had wanted him to take John out. He refused and resigned, but before he could leave Moriarty decided it was best if he locked him up so he did not warn John or Sherlock. To escape he had to fight his way out.

 

The cab pulled up to 221b and John carried Moran up the drive and into the kitchen. He left him in a chair with a few bags of frozen vegetables and hurried up the stairs. As he climbed them he heard soft piano music. It did not sound like a cd, where could it be coming from?

John followed it and noticed it was coming from the one room Sherlock had not unlocked. He slowly opened the door and saw a man sitting at a grand piano. He looked up from the keys and smiled, “Hello John, I have waited so long to meet you.”

John clenched his fist and stared at Moriarty, who shrugged. “Go get your gun if it will make you feel better. Not that it will do you much good, because it isn’t loaded. This one however, is.” He held up a gun with one hand and continued playing with the other, “I hope you don’t mind, I borrowed your bullets.”

“Where is Sherlock?” John asked testily, full of hatred for the man in front of him. The man who hired some one to kill Sherlock, and had done horrible things to Moran.

“It doesn’t matter, this is just you and me time. How bout you look around. Aren't you at all curious about that one room good old Shirley was keeping from you?”

Seeing no other option John quickly scanned the room, “It’s a bedroom.”

“Very good, Doctor Watson.” Moriarty said in a sing song voice, suddenly grinning. “Very good. But not any bedroom. It is dear old Sherlock’s childhood bedroom.”

John slipped his hand into his pocket and reached for his phone and Jim tsked him. “You should have called before you came in the house because, well, I think you will find the reception is not working.”

John removed his hand from his pocket and Jim said, “Let me tell you a story John Watson. Some things about your boss.”

Unable to contain himself John muttered, “You're crazy.”

“How long did it take you to figure that out?” Jim said with a wink, “Where was I? Oh yes, Sherlock. He was suppose to play the piano like me. They got him this when he was seven and he never touched it. He wanted to be like his older brother, I haven’t got a clue why, who played the violin. That did not make his father very happy. That and the fact he found us making out under the pear tree.” Moriarty’s face looked sad for a fraction of a second before he shouted, causing John to jump. “I was always there for you Sherlock! Even when your daddy beat you! I would have helped you with your addiction! Why did you turn me away? And then replace me with this stupid lumbering medic?”

John turned and saw the violinist standing in the door way. Not acknowledging the shouting pianist Sherlock walked over to John, “John Watson, why is there a man bleeding in my kitchen? I strictly forbade you not to bring anyone else into this house.” In contrast with his tone, Sherlock’s eyes were gentle and John momentarily forgot about the threat in the room. Then Sherlock turned from him and walked towards the piano, coat swishing behind him. “But at least the bleeding man is a friend.”

“Sherlock,” Jim said laughing and standing to meet him, the facade of welcome only put off by the gun.

Sherlock stopped a few feet away from Moriarty, “Why are you in my house?”

“I am on a mission to educate,” Jim said, “And to kill your boyfriend of course.”

“No you aren't. You don’t fire guns, you get others to fire them for you. Surly Mycroft will have noticed your home intrusion by now and we will have company any moment.”

“He would do that.” Moriarty agreed, “If he hadn't drunk a half bottle of wine. We both know he can barely handle a glass. And the only other person who cares about you is right next to him and drank the other half.”

Sherlock was about to say something but Moriarty cut him off to talk to John, “We could have been good friends you know, you and I. You could have worked for me, had plenty of time with Sebastian. You wouldn't have had Sherlock, it is true, but at least you would have had your life.”

John suddenly lunged at Moriarty, grabbing the barrel of the gun. Moriarty released it instantly and caught John, who felt a prick on his arm and then a lot of pain. John screamed and Moriarty gently lowered him to the ground.

Sherlock’s voice was suddenly panicked, “What did you do to him?” He demanded picking up the forgotten gun and pointing it at Jim. When he did not get an answer he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

“Oh,” Moriarty sighed, “I wish you hadn't done that.”

Sherlock made to throw the gun aside, but it would not leave his hand. He came to the sickening realization that there was a needle protruding from the trigger into his finger. He started to feel pain spread from his hand. “What is it?!”

“Must have been all those drugs.” Moriarty mused as Sherlock collapsed on the ground, “It is taking longer to affect you.” He knelt down next to Sherlock and whispered, “Are you familiar with the properties of sting ray venom?” He raised his voice, “Johnny isn’t doing as well as you. Already paralyzed, but at least he can hear me. And if I am not wrong, he can see us too.” He waved at John, whose eyes feebly twitched. “Yep, he is all there. Well I have got to dash.” He knelt down and kissed Sherlock on the forehead.

“It did not have to be this way.” He sighed tucking a few curls behind Sherlock’s ear. “We could have had something. You have a few hours to ponder that and then.” he made a popping noise with his mouth and stood up. “Good bye Doctor Watson, good by Sherlock Hol-”

His words were cut off by a bang and Jim Moriarty fell in front of John.  
Through his haze of pain John heard someone mumble, “Asshole.” before blacking out.


	9. Assassins, Soup, and Singing

Was some one calling his name? John’s ears rung, why did everything hurt? He seemed to be lying in a bed, and was vaguely aware of a needle in his arm. He opened his eyes and saw someone sitting next to him. “Sherlock?”

“Not quite.” A gruff voice said. “He is sleeping.”

John squinted, “Seb?”

“Thats the one.” The voice laughed, “Am I glad to see you awake.”

John felt sluggish, “How is Sherlock?”

“Recovering, better than you. Isn’t it fun, us being in the same hospital, like a sleepover party.”

John’s vision cleared and could just make out Sherlock sleeping in the bed next to him. Moran was sitting in a wheel chair between them. “Is Moriarty here too?”

Moran’s smile faded, “He is dead.”

Suddenly Sherlock stirred, “Sebastian, I told you to shoot Mycroft if he came in.”

“I don’t think you want me to shoot the person I am talking to.” soldier said winking at John.

“John?” the violinist asked sitting up.

“Thats me.” John replied, envying Sherlock’s mobility. 

Moran looked from one to the other, “I will leave you two.” before wheeling out.

“Sting ray venom is not suppose to affect people like this.” John said breaking the silence before pressing the button on his bed to make himself sit up.

“We were injected with a concentrated form that had a few added ingredients. We would be dead if Sebastian hadn't found us.” Sherlock said shifting dangling his leg over the side of his bed.

“How did he get help?” John asked imagining the soldier crawling to a neighbors house.

“He fired all of his rounds out the window.”

“That works too.” John mumbled. The conversation was tiring him out, and his eye lids slid shut. Surrendering to his body he fell asleep.

 

Sherlock and John were eating dinner together after one of Moran’s daily visits. The violinist was well enough to go home, but he had chosen to stay with John. A roll was sitting on the table between them surrounded by flowers from Molly and Mrs Hudson. Sherlock had wanted John to have it, but John had refused and now it was in the no man’s land between them.

There was a knock at the door and Lestrade walked in with a note book and handed it to Sherlock. “Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes.” Sherlock replied taking it from him and putting his soup down on the table.

“Oh, and Mycroft is-”

Sherlock groaned and pulled his pillow over his head. Lestrade raised his eyebrows at John, who could not help but laugh. Mycroft walked in, looked round, and sighed. “I will work with him Gregory. ”

“See you later John.” the agent said before walking out the door.

Mycroft sat in the guest chair and crossed his legs. “You two are lucky. ”

“Go get injected with sting ray venom and then call yourself lucky.” Sherlock grumbled.

Mycroft ignored him. “As is Sebastian Moran. Your enemy is dead, you are all expected to make full recoveries, and Mr. Moran has been given a clean slate legally.”

John let out a sigh of relief. He had been worried for Sebastian, but hearing this put his mind at ease.

“Get me in for the next London gig.” Sherlock said suddenly emerging from the pillow.

Mycroft smiled and pulled out his phone. “That is a pleasant surprise. Now I can tell Gregory to stop worrying about your professional career. Does this mean you are back to work?”

“Yes. Now run along.” Sherlock ordered as he returned to his soup.

Mycroft gave Sherlock a look but then walked out of the room. 

“The doctor came in wile you were sleeping and said you could go home if you had some one to look after you.” Sherlock said through a mouthful of noodles.

“I can look after myself.” John muttered not wanting to be a burden.

Sherlock shook his head, “No you can’t. But I can.”

 

Sherlock helped John onto the couch in front of the fireplace and lit a few logs. He gave John a look, as if asking for permission, before lying down next to him. They sat for a long while before Sherlock said, “I know you got into my parents room, and I want to explain. I went through a bad time. My father was horrid, and my mother acted like nothing was wrong. When the both died in a car accident I was so confused. And mad. After destroying their room I started to get off my drug addiction, but then James came back and set me off again.”

Taking a gamble John said, “My father was awful too. He kicked my sister out of the house when she came out. She was only fifteen. And I think it made me, well I was afraid to accept that I was...” He trailed off. Sherlock was looking at him with pure empathy, like he knew exactly how he felt. “I have never talked about this before.” John added with a nervous laugh unable to look away from the violinist’s eyes. “I....I don’t know what to do now.”

He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to kiss Sherlock Holmes. But it felt to cliché, too much like a movie or a cheap romance novel. And there was that one part of his brain screaming that he was his employer...

All of his protests were silenced when violinist scooted closer and kissed him. It was quick, chaste kiss, but to John it seemed to last centuries. Afterward Sherlock curled up partly on him and said, “I do not know how to approach relationships John. My previous one was not at all healthy. If I do anything wrong...” Sherlock kept rambling until John took his hand.

“Neither of us know what we are doing, and neither of us know what to expect. So we can figure it out together, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded.

A log popped in the fireplace. “I wrote a new album.”

“Hm, is that why you signed up for a show?” John inquired wiggling his fingers so their hands interlocked more comfortably.

“Yes.” Sherlock paused. “You know that song I wrote. The one I wrote for you.”

“Yes?” John prompted looking down at Sherlock who’s face was glowing red, and not from the fire light.

“It has lyrics.” He said in a voice so small John could barely hear it.

John’s brow creased. He had never heard Sherlock sing before. All of his shows were purely instrumental. “Do I get to hear it?”

Sherlock cleared his throat, and then a low rumbling tone began singing.


	10. Epilogue

The show had sold out, the theater had had to change the room so it could accommodate the audience. Sherlock strode from behind the curtain and across the stage ignoring the chair set out for him. The audience rose to applaud, but Sherlock had eyes for only one man. Once everyone had settled back into their seats the violinist brought his bow to the strings.

 

As Sherlock played John smiled. If there was one thing the violinist loved more than him, it was showing off. He was not playing for the money, or the audience, or a record deal. He was trying to impress John with his influence, and it was working. He was surrounded by hundreds of people all spell bound by his boyfriend’s music.

All of the songs had been written for him. He and Sherlock had agreed on not playing the original song in a show, but the others were a public tribute to their relationship. They ranged from somber to cheerful to electrifying, and each were special to John.

 

Once he finished the final song of the night Sherlock bowed and the audience applauded. Before the clapping had died off Sherlock leaped off the stage and walked to John.

“How was I?” Sherlock asked smiling down at him and taking his hands.

“The music was brilliant,” John said smiling back, “and you were beautiful.”

Sherlock lowered his lips to John and kissed him, ignoring the sudden murmurs of surprise and disapproval. They broke the kiss and Sherlock raised his eyebrows, “A homosexual in the entertainment industry, what will they think of next?”

Chuckling Sherlock and John made their way up to the stage to collect Sherlock’s stuff. The violinist gently placed his instrument in its case before glancing playfully up at John. “No assassin tonight?”

“None so far.” John replied before letting out a low whistle. Sherlock tilted his head, a few dark curls falling across his face, clearly waiting for an explanation.

John grinned, “It's that I just realized, now I am the one married to my work.”


End file.
